Weariness
by Sophia-Silfaery
Summary: At the end of his time on Middle Earth there is one last duty for Celeborn to perform.


Where the land met the sea, where earth met heaven and the finite gazed upon the infinite. At the end of the world was where he would find him. Kings and Princes, children and foolhardy young men, hot-blooded with a thirst for vengeance, they had all sought him to no avail. He had been hidden from the eyes of the world for almost six thousand years and now he was about to be confronted with it whether he wished it or not.

"Son of Feanor! I would speak with thee."

Celeborn almost immediately regretted his commanding tone. He had been alone for so long himself that he had forgotten how to temper his speech. The lone figure did not move, but continued to stare hungrily out into the ocean, toward the west where the sun was now sinking beneath the horizon. His face was cast in red light and he seemed very far away. Perhaps the legends were true, perhaps he had succumbed to madness, perhaps there was no hope now. Celeborn sighed and was turning to leave when a voice punctuated the stillness.

"Thou speakest with the voice of the ancient tongue. Who art thou that thou comest to turn me aside from my sorrow?"

"Turn thou and behold me."

Maglor, son of Feanor regarded him quietly for a moment before returning his gaze to the horizon. "So it is you, Celeborn of Doriath, who disturbs my rest."

The Sindarin tongue sounded strange coming from lips of a creature so obviously not of Middle Earth; but Celeborn took the courtesy for what it was and answered in kind.

"I am no longer of Doriath, Son of Feanor, you of all Elvenkind should know that."

He had tried to keep the bitterness from his voice, and he had almost succeeded. But the son of Feanor was not to be lightly spoken with and missed nothing of what was said.

"Aye," replied Maglor heavily, "a great evil it was that I visited upon you and your family."

"I did not come to speak on that." Celeborn replied, guiding the conversation as best he could.

"Then what? Why they leave? What calls them back? I think not for I see it in your eyes, you look to the West, Celeborn lord of vanities."

Celeborn was momentarily thrown off course. "Vanities?"

"You claim no Princedom, you lost Eregion to my nephew and Lothlorien to the inexorable passage of time, so you are lord in vanity only and prince over empty air."

Empty air and sea-beds, thought Celeborn wryly, Maglor was right.

"Then give me my name and not my title, for to speak with air is itself a vain pursuit."

"I shall name you as you name me. There were once seven sons of Feanor but there is only one Makalaure. So now that we have come to an agreement on names, what is it you want from me Celeborn?"

"It is as you said. I wish to sail."

Maglor first looked incredulous and then his fine features twisted into a mocking smile.

"Surely you could have gone with your Galadriel when she returned. Or did she run from you once she realized that you no longer had power she could use?"

"I will not be driven away by your insults or those of anyone else. I came to speak with you and speak I will."

Maglor gestured for Celeborn to come and sit alongside him, legs dangling over the sheer cliff-face. The wind buffeted the high ledge and whipped Celeborn's silver hair around his head in a mad frenzy.

"You will find life much less of a nuisance if you simply cut it off."

Only then did Celeborn register that the other elf had shorn off his flame bright hair so that it hung lank and dulled about his head in the fashion of men. A shiver of revulsion went through him at the prospect of such mutilation.

"Ah Celeborn your emotions are as bright and hot as the iron of a sword when it is beaten on the anvil. Now come, let us forget the evils of history and speak one to another."

"That is what I came to do."

The older elf laughed bitterly into the fierce winds at the words.

"History is a remarkable leveler is it not Celeborn? After thousands of years of enmity and bloodshed, war and defeat - finally at the end we sit together, the last of our people, united in longing for what we cannot have."

"And what would it be that we cannot have?"

"Valinor!" Maglor's eyes gleamed strangely as his lips formed the word. "The Blessed Realm where all those we love now live in peace."

"I can hardly imagine my wife and your Father ever living in peace?" Celeborn remarked dryly, "but I am curious, why do you say we cannot have it."

"More ironies from the lord of vanities…you cannot sail because you do not know the way. I am the only one can show you and yet I cannot sail because you have not opened my way. We do indeed live in strange times."

Celeborn smiled cryptically. "That does not answer my question."

Maglor laughed again, "Mayhap I did you a dishonour to deny you a title. There is one you do deserve, Celeborn the Wise."

"And if you possess even a little wisdom then you will have perceived the reason for my coming."

"I have," Maglor said, with the air of a final pronouncement. "And I have said it, you want the way, you want the route. I cannot give it too you."

"I do not ask it."

"Then what?"

There was surprise in those words. By way of explanation Celeborn rose and pulled his sword from his scabbard, holding it high. "You have seen this before have you not Makalaure."

He watched dark eyes take in silver steel and gold lettering; this was a sword that Maglor's brothers would recognize. For at least two it had been their last sight.

"I have," he said shortly, "and for what purpose do you display it before me now? Do you mean to at last take vengeance upon my kind and remove all memory of my Father's oath from these shores?"

Long experience with elves and men alike had given Celeborn the ability to judge a man with a glance. Now that ability told him the Feanorian was afraid that his bravado would prove true, that he was indeed about to enter the halls. He took a deep breath, he would allay that fear, but whether or not his offer would be accepted he did not know. He let the sword slide from his grip.

It made barely a sound as it hit the springy turf. Maglor's eyes had followed it as it fell, an oddly hollow look echoed in their depths. Celeborn stepped back and spread his arms, offering the weapon to his former enemy.

"What is this that you give me?"

"An open way. I give you forgiveness Makalaure Feanorian."

"Forgiveness?" Maglor's voice shook as it spoke the word. "Ha! I do not seek your forgiveness Celeborn the Wise. You need not offer it to me."

"Whether you seek it or not it is given. I present my sword as token of it."

"I…" Maglor began, but stopped swiftly, overcome by emotion. Celeborn watched, strangely moved by the tears that now formed in the others eyes. Eyes that he knew had stared into the faces of his family with hatred as they had been slaughtered.

"There has been enough suffering come of our long lives Makalaure," he said gently, "we must cleanse this world and leave it. It is no longer meant for us."

"I am not for the elves any longer." Maglor stared at the sword, wild eyed. "I do not know how I could return?"

"We shall go together, you and I, just think what the Noldor and the Sindar will think when they see the Prince of Doriath and the Son of Feanor come together out of Ennor. We can heal old rifts."

"Nay, I cannot go. The Oath, it binds me. I repent of it more than any can know, but still it holds me. You taunt me Celeborn, you do not understand the Oath is unbreakable."

"No words spoken by finite beings are unbreakable Makalaure."

There was a long silence after that, the sun was now gone beneath the edge of the world, gone to pant its way forth to the east where it would soon rise and begin the cycle anew. Celeborn waited for his answer, watching as Maglor bent to pick up the sword and held it balanced between his hands, studying the blade.

"I do not know if you speak truth Celeborn," he said suddenly, "but you are called wise."

"I will plead with Manwe for you if need be, and that is certainly not wise, but it is a mark of my resolve to heal the wounds between the kindreds."

"I do not understand you, Celeborn."

"Sometimes I do not understand myself."

"Do you understand why you sought me out?"

Now it was Celeborn's turn to stare into the West. He looked up at the chariot of Earendil, appearing bright in the evening sky and pondered what it would be like to see Galadriel again after all these ages.

"A weariness of all the pain and sorrow our kind have suffered." He said finally. "I do not wish to prolong it any longer. Yes," he said softly, speaking almost to himself. "I suppose it was simply weariness."


End file.
